The Everything Store: Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon (37 page)

Inside Amazon, the pain endured over the previous seven years was paying off. Prime, the two-day shipping service, was an engine spinning the company’s flywheel ever faster. Amazon customers who joined Prime doubled, on average, their spending on the site, according to a person familiar with the company’s internal finances at the time. A Prime member was like a shopper who walked into a Costco warehouse for a case of beer and walked out with the beer plus an armful of DVDs, a nine-pound smoked ham, and a flat-screen television.

Prime members bought more products across more categories, which in turn convinced sellers to let Amazon stock their merchandise and ship their orders from its fulfillment centers, since that meant their products qualified for Prime two-day shipping. Amazon was enjoying what analysts call operating leverage—it was getting more out of its assets, and its famously microscopic profit margins started to expand. (Although that was temporary—they would shrink again a few years later when Bezos started investing in new areas like tablets and streaming video.)

All of this became dramatically visible to the wider world for the first time on April 24, 2007, when Amazon announced surprisingly strong results from its first quarter. Quarterly sales topped $3 billion for the first time—a 32 percent jump in a year, well above its previously consistent 20-something percent annual growth rate and the 12 percent annual growth rate for the rest of e-commerce. That meant Amazon was stealing customers from other Internet players and likely even from the offline chains. During 2007, as investors came to understand the salubrious effects of Prime, Amazon’s stock jumped 240 percent—only to fall all the way back down again in the ensuing financial crisis and global recession.

At the same time that Amazon’s flywheel was accelerating, eBay’s was flying apart. The appeal of online auctions had faded; a customer wanted the convenience and certainty of a quickly completed purchase, not a seven-day waiting period to see if his aggressively low bid for a set of Cobra golf clubs had won the day.

But eBay’s problems went beyond the overripening of the auctions format. Amazon and eBay had taken diametrically opposite paths. Amazon endured the pain of disrupting its own retail business with its eBay-like Amazon Marketplace, which allowed third-party sellers to list their products on the company’s single-detail pages; eBay, which had started as a third-party auctions platform, recognized that many of its customers wanted a more Amazon-like fixed-price alternative but failed to self-administer the necessary bitter medicine in a single dose. It spent two years working on a
separate destination for fixed-price retail, called eBay Express, which got no traffic when it debuted in 2006 and was quickly shut down. Only then did eBay finally commit to allowing fixed-price sales to share space alongside auctions on the site and in search results on eBay.com.
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Meanwhile, Amazon invested heavily in technology, taking aggressive swings with digital initiatives like the Kindle. Amazon also focused on fixing and improving the efficiency of its fulfillment centers. EBay executives searched for high-growth businesses elsewhere, acquiring the calling service Skype in 2005, the online-ticketing site StubHub in 2007, and a series of classified-advertising websites. But it let its primary site wither. Customers became happier over time with the shopping experience on Amazon and progressively more disgruntled with the challenges of finding items on eBay and dealing with sellers who overcharged for shipping. Amazon had battled and mastered chaos; eBay was engulfed by it.

In 2008 Meg Whitman passed eBay’s reins to John Donahoe, a tall and gracious onetime Dartmouth College basketball player and a former consultant for Bain and Company. One of Donahoe’s first trips in his new capacity was to Seattle, where he went to pay a courtesy visit to Bezos at Amazon’s headquarters. The executives talked about innovation, hiring, and how they got enough exercise and dealt with stress. Bezos was now working out regularly and was on a strict lean-protein diet.

At the meeting, Donahoe paid his respects to the e-commerce pioneer. “I am always going to be less cool than you,” he told Bezos. “I have huge admiration for what you’ve done.” Bezos said that he did not view Amazon and eBay as fighting a winner-take-all battle. “Our job is to grow the e-commerce pie and if we do that there is going to be room for five Amazons and five eBays,” Bezos said. “I’ve never said a negative thing about eBay and I never will. I don’t want anyone to view this as a zero-sum game.”

That year, eBay’s stock lost over half its market value, and in July, Amazon’s valuation surpassed eBay’s for the first time in nearly a decade. Bezos had now accomplished many of his early goals, like
turning Amazon into the primary storefront on the Web. The website was selling more kinds of things—and just generally selling more things—than ever before. Amazon reported $14.8 billion in sales in 2007, which was more than two of its earliest foes combined could boast: Barnes & Noble pulled in $5.4 billion that year, and eBay $7.7 billion.

That meant nothing, of course. Despite the teeming abundance of merchandise at Phoenix 3, Bezos still saw broad gaps in Amazon’s product lineup. “In order to be a two-hundred-billion-dollar company, we’ve got to learn how to sell clothes and food,” Bezos said frequently to colleagues during this time. That figure was not randomly selected; it referred to the magnitude of Walmart’s sales in the middle years of the decade. To lead the new foray into consumable goods, Bezos hired Doug Herrington, a former executive at Webvan, the failed grocery-delivery business from the dot-com boom. After two years of work, Herrington’s group started testing Amazon Fresh, a grocery-delivery service in Amazon’s hometown of Seattle.

At the same time that Bezos hired Herrington, he brought in veteran apparel executive Steven Goldsmith and acquired the luxury-goods website Shopbop to help Amazon learn the byzantine ways of the clothing business. Along with Goldsmith, Russ Grandinetti, as head of hard-lines, would lead the renewed charge into apparel.

In the midst of yet another retail expansion at Amazon, Bezos seemed to be trying to modulate his management style and keep his notoriously eviscerating assessments of employees in check. It was said he had hired a leadership coach, though the identity of this counselor was a closely guarded secret. “You could see the fact that he was getting feedback and taking it seriously,” says Diane Lye, then the director of infrastructure automation. During one memorable meeting, Bezos reprimanded Lye and her colleagues in his customarily devastating way, telling them they were stupid and saying they should “come back in a week when you figure out what you’re doing.” Then he walked a few steps, froze in midstride as if something had suddenly
occurred to him, wheeled around, and added, “But great work, everyone.”

The S Team was working together more smoothly now. Familiarity had bred trust and apparently quelled the acrimony among the Amazon managers. Bezos had at this point worked with executives like Jeff Wilke, Jeff Blackburn, Diego Piacentini, chief financial officer Tom Szkutak, and general counsel Michelle Wilson for the better part of a decade.

But one beloved S Team member was no longer with the company. At an all-hands meeting at the Moore Theater in November of 2007, Jeff Bezos announced to employees that Rick Dalzell, his longtime right-hand man, was retiring. The senior manager of the company’s engineers, Dalzell had been trying to exit for a while.

He was fifty years old, he had gained weight, and he was ready to spend more time with his family. After Bezos made the announcement, the two men got emotional and embraced onstage. On Dalzell’s last day at work, his colleagues threw him a low-key going-away party at Jillian’s bar in South Lake Union.

Four months later, enjoying retirement, Dalzell decided to visit his daughter in college in Oregon. His wife chartered a private plane for her husband, herself, and Dalzell’s parents. Strangely, their driver took them not to their usual airport but to a private airfield down the street from Boeing Field. Dalzell finally started to notice something was amiss when the car pulled up to a familiar hangar sheltering a Dassault Falcon. When he walked into the airplane, he found it full of friends, colleagues, and Jeff Bezos, all of whom shouted, “Surprise!” They were going to Hawaii for a gala given in appreciation of Dalzell’s longtime service, just like the Shelebration for Shel Kaphan nine years before. Bezos and MacKenzie invited Andy Jassy and his wife, former colleague Bruce Jones, and a bunch of Dalzell’s family friends and army buddies.

They stayed in bungalows on a beach in Kona. Butlers were on call, and a sushi chef appeared at four o’clock every afternoon.
Lengthy toasts were proffered over dinners, and one day they took an aerial tour of Volcanoes National Park, but in the jet, not a helicopter. “Jeff’s not a helicopter guy anymore,” says Bruce Jones.

Bezos worked his subordinates to exhaustion, supplied little in the way of corporate creature comforts, and allowed many key personnel to leave without showing any remorse. But he was also capable of deeply gracious and unexpected expressions of appreciation. Dalzell had performed heroically for a decade and kept the company on track in the gloomy days when the infrastructure was a mess and Google was poaching every other engineer.

Over the next few years, Dalzell watched Amazon from afar and marveled at how Bezos turned himself into one of the world’s most admired corporate chiefs. “Jeff does a couple of things better than anyone I’ve ever worked for,” Dalzell says. “He embraces the truth. A lot of people talk about the truth, but they don’t engage their decision-making around the best truth at the time.

“The second thing is that he is not tethered by conventional thinking. What is amazing to me is that he is bound only by the laws of physics. He can’t change those. Everything else he views as open to discussion.”

Amid this renaissance of sales growth and continued category expansion, Amazon made very few acquisitions. The lessons learned from its early acquisition spree in the late 1990s were still felt inside the company. Amazon had impulsively spent hundreds of millions to buy unproven startups that it could not digest and whose executives almost all left. In the resulting retrenchment, Amazon became uniquely parsimonious in how it approached mergers and acquisitions. Between 2000 and 2008, it acquired just a few companies, among which were the Chinese e-commerce site Joyo (bought in 2004 for $75 million), the print-on-demand upstart BookSurge (bought in 2005 for an undisclosed amount), and audio-book company Audible (bought in 2008 for $300 million). These deals were paltry by the standards of the broader technology industry. During
this span of time, for example, Google bought YouTube for $1.65 billion and DoubleClick for $3.1 billion.

Jeff Blackburn, Amazon’s chief of business development, said that Amazon’s bruises from the 1990s helped to create a “building culture” there. Every major company faces decisions over whether it should build or buy new capabilities. “Jeff almost always prefers to build it,” Blackburn says. Bezos had absorbed the lessons of the business bible
Good to Great,
whose author, Jim Collins, counseled companies to acquire other firms only when they had fully mastered their virtuous circles, and then “as an
accelerator
of flywheel momentum, not a creator of it.”
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Now that Amazon had finally mastered its flywheel, it was time to splurge. For Bezos and Amazon, the irresistible temptation was Zappos.com, the online footwear and apparel retailer founded in 1999 by a soft-spoken but unnaturally persistent entrepreneur named Nick Swinmurn. By all measures, Swinmurn’s unlikely idea—to let people buy shoes over the Web without trying them on first—should have drifted off with the other flotsam in the dot-com bust. But after getting turned away from a dozen venture-capital firms, Swinmurn finally solicited an investment from an equally tenacious entrepreneur named Tony Hsieh, the son of Taiwanese immigrants and a seasoned poker player who had sold his first company, LinkExchange, to Microsoft for $250 million in stock. Hsieh and Alfred Lin, a Harvard classmate and former chief financial officer of LinkExchange, placed a tentative $500,000 bet on the startup Zappos via their investment firm Venture Frogs, and Hsieh later joined it as CEO. In the grip of the dot-com downturn, Hsieh simply refused to let Zappos die, putting in $1.5 million of his own money and selling off some of his personal assets to keep it afloat. He moved the company from San Francisco to Las Vegas to cut costs and to make it easier to find workers for its customer-service call center.

In 2004, Hsieh attracted an investment from Sequoia Capital, the firm that had backed LinkExchange. Sequoia, which had rejected Zappos a few times before coming around, invested a total of $48
million in the startup across several rounds, and a partner, Michael Moritz, joined the board of directors. In Las Vegas, the company finally found its groove, and in the minds of Web shoppers, its name and website became synonymous with the novel idea of buying footwear online.

In many ways, Zappos was the Bizarro World version of Amazon; everything was slightly similar but completely different. Hsieh, like Bezos, nurtured a quirky internal culture and frequently talked about it in public to reinforce the Zappos brand in customers’ minds. But he took it even further. New employees were each offered a flat one thousand dollars to quit during the first week on the job, the assumption being that those who took the bounty were not right for the firm anyway. Employees were encouraged to lavishly decorate their cubicles at Zappos headquarters in Henderson, Nevada, and each department would rise in rowdy salute to the visitors who toured the offices. Hsieh felt strongly that everyone, even senior executives, should take below-market compensation to work there because of the great internal culture the company offered.

Like Bezos, Hsieh was obsessed with the customer experience. Zappos promised free five-to seven-day delivery on orders and aimed to surprise customers with two-day delivery in most major urban areas. The website’s users could return items at no charge for up to a year after their purchases, allowing a customer to order four pair of shoes, try them all on, and return three of them. Hsieh encouraged his call-center representatives to spend as much time as necessary talking to customers to solve their problems. Bezos, of course, treated phone calls from customers as indications of defects in the Amazon system, and he tried vigorously to reduce the number of customer contacts for each unit sold. In fact, finding the toll-free number on the Amazon website can be something of a scavenger hunt.